The lighter side of foxhunting. Humorous observations, short essays, quips, and quotes for your entertainment. Featuring excerpts from "The Foxhunter's Guide to Great Sex," "You Might Be A Foxhunter If...," "A Typology of Foxhunters," and more.

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Thursday, September 30, 2010

This week’s excerpt from the Foxhunter’s Guide to Great Sex, under the Primal Urges heading, is:

Tally-Ho Tip #2:

Become a Gourmand Caveman.

You can tell how someone makes love by watching how he eats his food. There are Gobblers and there are Gourmands.

The Gobbler likes food, likes it very much in fact. But he’s too self-focused and goal-oriented to savor the meal placed before him. He wants to get to the payoff as quickly as possible, that big, satisfying BUUUURRRPPP! When the plate’s empty — which takes all of two minutes — he’s outta there. He knows what he likes and, more importantly, what he doesn’t like. Not that he’s tried very many things in his life. He’s found what works to satisfy his narrow appetite and can’t be bothered to venture out into unknown territory where things might taste bad, even if it means he might also find some new things that taste incredibly great. Nope, stick to the good old meat-and-potatoes, gobble ’em down, get the job done with a minimum of muss-and-fuss, and then move on to something else — like a good nap.

A Gourmand (similar to a gourmet only not so picky) also likes food very much. He likes all kinds of food: Food he knows, food he’s never tried; food that takes hours of preparation, food he can pop right into his mouth; food that looks delicious and food that looks weird. It’s all good. It’s about satisfying his hunger, yes, but it’s much more than that. It’s an adventure. It’s about savoring the experience, taking the time to enjoy each mouthful, to appreciate the whole encounter. When the meal’s over, he wants to talk about what worked, what didn’t, what could have been done differently (a little more flavoring here, a little less spice there), what were the best parts, what he’d like to try again.

Foxhunting, like great sex, is a Gourmand-style experience. It takes time, focus, and preparation to do it right. Some days the effort pays off, some days it doesn’t. But it’s all good. It’s all an adventure. And when it’s over, the pleasure continues by talking about the experience, the high points and pitfalls, what worked and what didn’t, what you’d like to do differently next time and what’s worth trying again. It never becomes boring, is never something you’d like to get over with quickly. You want it to last a long time whenever you do it and when it’s over your appetite soon starts to build for the next outing.

The Gobbler’s still a few notches down on the evolutionary scale. He’s got the “Sex good!” part figured out okay. What the Gobbler doesn’t realize is that every woman is a Gourmand. She values the full experience — the anticipation, preparation, participation, and, eventually, the payoff. A little reflective discussion afterward doesn’t hurt either. Just like sharing a fine meal…or a great day out with hounds. Which is one more point to support my claim that foxhunters are the sexiest people on the planet. No Gobblers allowed, only Gourmand Cavemen need apply.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Merriam-Webster provides two definitions of “venery.” The first is “the art, act, or practice of hunting.” The second is “the pursuit of or indulgence in sexual pleasure.” Coincidence? I think not.

It’s comforting to have the endorsement of the respected Mister Merriam and his colleague Webster for the belief that has come from my years of intensive research into what makes a man or woman sexy. I can now report without reservation, and with the concurrence of M-W, that foxhunters are the sexiest people on the planet.

I have discerned six principles that flow from this which anyone can apply to improve not only their love life but their love of life. It isn’t just about the horses, hounds, and foxes. It’s about attitude. It flows from the foxhunter’s deep appreciation for all things sensual, beautiful, thrilling, and fulfilling.

These six principles are:

·Primal Urges

·Preparation

·Patience

·Persistence

·Packaging

·Payoff

What follows over the next several weeks are excerpts from the examples and suggestions (called “Tally-ho Tips”) on how you can apply those six principles to your life — even if you live in a city condo, have never been on a horse, and wouldn’t dream of actually riding to hounds.

This advice is directed mainly toward men. Women already know these six secrets, or at least sense them intuitively, which is why ladies heavily dominate the horse world. Unfortunately, many women gravitate to horses as a substitute for great sex because they can’t get their men to see the connection. My intensive research also shows that most men need a good whack upside the head before their attention can be focused on any subject that does not include other men in heavy padding knocking each other over, brightly colored pieces of machinery that go very fast and turn left, or photos of young women wearing little or no clothing (sorry guys, no such pix here).

Ladies, read these postings as a means of giving structure to the insights you already possess. Then take your keyboard firmly in hand, cock back your arm, and give the man in your life a solid smack with it. Tell him the title to the final posting includes the world “orgasm” and that you’ll be waiting in the bedroom when he’s finished reading it.

Gentlemen, now that I have your attention, let’s take a trip to Sexy-Land.

Tally-Ho Tip #1:

Get in touch with your primal urges.

Sex: It’s so easy a caveman can do it. And thank goodness they did. Nothing is more basic to human nature than sex, right? Aren’t we all programmed with an undeniable drive to propagate the species? Doesn’t that justify a man’s desire to, shall we say, “spread his seed” (or, in less Biblical phrasing, screw anything that moves)?

Yes, sex as procreation is pretty basic, a primal urge right down there with the need for food. Sex and food, food and sex. As a personal need, you won’t survive very long without food. As a public need, the human race won’t survive very long without sex. And how did primitive man get primitive sex? By bringing home some primitive food. And how did he get that food? He went out hunting for it.

Hunting: Darned if that’s not just what we’re going to talk about — tracking down quarry and showing that you can bring home the mammoth burgers. Oog, the mighty hunter, got mighty lucky with the ladies whenever he returned from the hunt with slathering slabs of meat slung over his brawny shoulders. “Ooooh, Oogie baby, come to my corner of the cave tonight.”

But aren’t we beyond all that now? Haven’t we evolved to a higher level of awareness that allows us to keep those primal urges in check?

Yes and no. The “yes” part has enabled the human race to rise above the primordial muck and realize amazing achievements such as space travel, mobile phones, and online porn. But thanks to the “no” part (and with a little help from online porn) there are now six billion of us homo sapiens on the planet, most of them driving on the same roads you use to get to work. Someone’s not keeping his primal urges in check.

Perhaps foxhunters, more than others, still hear the call of our ancient blood. When you thunder to the crest of a hill in open country and behold the spectacle of hounds in full cry coursing after their prey, hear the exuberant call of the huntsman’s horn, and then gallop after with reckless abandon, somewhere the specter of a Cro-Magnon relative is grunting his brutish encouragement: “Hunt good!” (And probably wishing he’d lived in a time when he could have done that for a few hours of sport and then gone home to the comforts of his Lascaux condo, where the voluptuous Mrs. Magnon would have been eagerly waiting in the cave corner.)

Foxhunters have the whole package: Enlightenment and lust, challenge and achievement, risk and reward. When it’s good, you’re left breathless, tired, sweating, grinning, a little sore, your heart’s pounding, and your knees are weak. And then it’s time to go home and have great sex! Some don’t even wait that long. The barn will do. In the extreme, it’s straight into the bushes.

Foxhunters are in tune with the full range of human needs and emotions. They can be refined, polite, courteous, and considerate when circumstances call for it. And they can abandon themselves to unbridled, reckless, even risky passion when scent is hot and the chase is on. It’s the perfect balance of achieving self-actualization while still embracing those undeniable primal urges. Find that balance, and you’re on your way to discovering the first of the foxhunter’s six secrets for great sex.

Start by getting in touch with your primal self. Forget about the artificiality of modern life. Let loose your inner caveman. Imagine a time before packaged foods, plastic shoes, and PETA. Say along with our ancestor Oog, “Hunt good! Sex good!”

Thursday, September 16, 2010

I have a request. This is directed to those who move to a rural area where foxhunting is still practiced and who embrace this lifestyle, either riding to hounds themselves or at least supporting the local hunt and allowing its members to cross their land. Bless you, thank you, may the heavens shower you with health, wealth, happiness, and an abundance of tax shelters. I ask but this: Please don’t use the word “fox” in the name of your farm. We have enough already. We have too many. We have so many that it’s become laughably trite. The only incentive now is to see how many variations of fox-themed farm names people can come up.

I appreciate the spirit behind these names. Each is a counterpoint to the developers’ use of hunt-themed names for places where hunting, or even trail riding, no longer exists. But how about shooting for a little more creativity here folks? And let’s recognize some other woodland critters that are an integral part of the countryside. Doesn’t “Possum Pastures” have a nice alliterative ring to it? Although it’s accurately descriptive of the rural lifestyle, “Knee-deep In Dirt, Debt, Hay and Horseshit Farm” might be hard to fit on a sign. For boldness and accuracy, as well as brevity, it would be tough to beat “Feral Cat Farm.”

I will allow one exception to the banishment of the word “fox” from any more farm signs. If your name happens to be “Fox,” you get an exemption.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

"Let him who is without sin and has a good pitchin’ arm see how far he can cast this here stone.”

Dave Barry

Our journey through a Typology of Foxhunters concludes with this week’s posting – Chasers. This series has generated many comments such as “What typology do you think I am?” and “My lawyer will be in touch with you.” Without citing a hard number, I think it’s safe to report that the favorability rating of this blog has far outstripped that of Congress (they’re down to single digits in some polls now, right?). And as everyone has a suggestion to improve the legislative process, so too have many readers of the Foxhunters Guide felt moved to suggest other topics for consideration on these pages. All such input is appreciated. And the more detailed the better. As the saying goes, “Plagiarism is the highest form of flattery.” (Certainly makes my work easier.)

For now, though, we’re going to wrap up Foxhunter Typologies with this week’s posting, give the blog a thorough cleansing with cyber disinfectant to wash away any remnants of lingering snarkiness, and turn to other, perhaps less prickly, topics starting next week. But for those of you who appreciate the attitude of Alice Roosevelt Longworth (“If you can’t say something nice, come and sit by me.”), fear not – there’s sure to be a return of the pricklies at some point.

Here is the final installment of Typologies, the one you’ve all been waiting for…

Chasers

Chasers make up the majority of foxhunters. Indeed, everyone reading this should consider himself or herself a Chaser (your good taste in blog selection clearly confirms that). Their primary motivation is a pure and simple love of the chase. Chasers enjoy riding horses and following hounds but the sport is not the main focus of their lives. They ride well enough to endure long runs and jump difficult fences without braggadocio, complaint, or excuse. While many could easily match or even exceed the skill and knowledge level of those serving as staff, the Chaser aspires to no higher office than that of the happy member of the field. They understand the difference between accepting the inherent risk the sport entails and the stupidity of taking unnecessary chances. If called upon to help out in a pinch as, say, field leader or whipper-in, they’ll rise to the occasion and do an admirable job. When the master or whip returns, the Chaser steps aside and rejoins the audience, his or her ego still comfortably intact. Most days Chasers will stay out until the huntsman blows “Going Home.” But when the action drags on for several hours and even fit horses begin to flag they will pull up, let the Superman Striver and his small band of Juice Junkies continue on, and take a leisurely walk back to the trailers, saving both themselves and their horses for another day.

Chasers serve on various club committees, as their schedule allows, and bring a level-headed maturity to the work. They pay their dues on time, recognize the value they receive for the outlay, and kick in extra bucks when appropriate such as at fundraising auctions and for the huntsman’s Christmas bonus. They appreciate the finer points of the sport – proper turnout, order in the field, when to be silent (most of the time), how the day’s hound work is proceeding – but are not insistent that all others adhere to the same old-fashioned standards. They are friendly and polite toward guests and new members, offering assistance and guidance when appropriate.

If there’s a downside to my depiction of Chasers, it’s that they’re so damn admirable it’s hard to poke fun at them.

Chasers are the backbone of foxhunting, the ones who are aware that the privilege of riding to hounds makes each of us one of the most fortunate people in the world. So why sully this singularly distinctive experience with misplaced ego or personal agenda? The Chaser revels in the joys the sport has to offer, accepts its responsibilities, laughs at his or her own shortcomings, and strives for patience with the foibles of others. If this Typology of Foxhunters has shown nothing else, it’s that when it comes to foibles, each of us contributes in some way, whether major or minor (okay, so maybe some waaaay more major than others). This is what makes us human. And wouldn’t life be damn boring if we were all perfect?

An attitude of patient acceptance strengthens the sense of camaraderie, a belief that we’re all in this sport for the same reasons, that we share the same values. True, we may have come to this pastime from a diversity of backgrounds, but now, in the spirit of the American Dream, we’re all bound together as equals (although “diversity” among foxhunters may have a slightly more narrow definition than it does among the broader populace).

And so I now conclude the Typology of Foxhunters, for the time being anyway, with one more inclusion of my oft-cited Burnsian riff:

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

This week’s posting gives you two for the price of one. (And considering the price, what a bargain this is!) Although different in critical ways, the two types depicted below share a common thread: their link to foxhunting is missing one critical element – the horse. The difference, however, is that one group has never ridden to hounds and never will while the other group once did but never will again. I have termed the former “Hodads,” an arcane reference that might strike a chord with a few folks out on the Left Coast. The latter group I have dubbed “Hunters Emeriti” if only to impress readers with my grasp of Latin tenses. Each group represents an important component of the hunting community and can be easily spotted at a tailgate in the field or breakfast at the clubhouse. Neither will be wearing hunting attire; street clothes will reveal their horseless status. The Hodads will be attempting to ingratiate their way into a conversation between those who have just returned from the hunt, seeking some opening for a comment that does not necessitate having been a part of the day’s action. The Hunters Emerti will be attempting to remain upright, possibly with the aid of a cane or walker, wondering who all these people are and if there’s still time to make the Early Bird special at Denny’s.

In more detail, we consider first…

Hodads

In surfing culture a Hodad is someone who hangs out at the beach, likes to associate with surfers, but never actually gets on a board. In the foxhunting world a Hodad is a social member, or in some cases a hanger-on politely referred to as “a friend of the hunt” (i.e., he shows up at tailgates but doesn’t actually fork over the few bucks required to be listed officially on the club’s social roster). This is someone drawn to the allure of foxhunting but who can’t muster the gumption to actually get on a horse and give it a try. Some live it vicariously through a child or spouse but many don’t even have that connection.

The Hodad’s role, when he or she is a paying social member, serves two functions.

First, this membership category provides an additional source of revenue for the club. And it’s pure profit. The Hodad’s dues help offset the cost of maintaining a pack of foxhounds and a string of horses, paying the salary of professional staff, and covering all the other operating expenses the club incurs. But the Hodad doesn’t use the hounds, horses, or staff, other than to show up and admire them as they move off into the countryside where the Hodad can’t go.

Second, Hodads provide a source of redemption for Posers. The Poser at least gets credit for being out there, on a horse, dealing with all her fears, taking the risks. Her timidity and constant excuses may be a source of annoyance, or amusement, to her fellow hunters but everyone has to recognize that she’s willing to put her feet in the irons and give it a go. She’s the surfer girl who may not be able to take the big curls but will paddle out, catch a wave, and have a wobbly ride back to the beach, arms akimbo to keep her balance, her face locked in grim determination. As long as she’s willing to get on the board, or in this case the horse, she ain’t no Hodad.

And now for a reverent consideration of…

Hunters Emeriti

A hunter emeritus is greatly venerated, typically someone who was an avid and active hunter for many years, a major supporter of the club, perhaps an ex-master or a major landowner. Now age and infirmity have taken their toll. The old hunter has swung a leg over a saddle for the last time. There will be no more days a-field riding to hounds. But the appeal of the chase and for the hunting-centered lifestyle remains undimmed. They still want to participate in some manner, even if it’s just staying involved as a social member, following a day’s hunting action by car or in the hound truck, attending the club’s social functions, serving as an officer or committee member. Given the premium foxhunters place on tradition, our focus more backward than forward, those who provide a living link to earlier times play a vital role in preserving the sport’s history. Old timers are the elders of our village, the sages who have seen it all, were there for the glory days, took the risks, and lived to tell.

Assuming, that is, they can still form intelligible words. Some are way overdue for a one-way trip to the old hunter’s home. Not only did they live the glory days, they think they’re still in the glory days, that it’s 1956 and Ike has just won a second term.

Anyone who has lived much of his life outdoors is likely to end up with skin that looks like they did a Rip Van Winkle in a tanning booth. These folks are walking warnings to remember the sunscreen.

Assuming, that is, they can still walk. I knew one old chap who kept a collection of glass jars filled with all the pins, bolts, and screws that had held various busted parts of his body together while they healed. Another fellow still rode for a few years after he had to give up foxhunting and had a special flap affixed to his saddle pad from which he could hang his cane. The broken neck that ended his hunting career left him a bit gimpy. Another gentleman could walk without aid, sort of. His unsure footfalls made him look like a parody of the drunken sailor.

They may be blubbering, decrepit, withered old sods but they’re our old sods. And we all hope to be like them one day. Either that or go out as a privileged few have, to suffer a massive heart attack in the saddle, preferably just after taking a long swig from a lovely lady’s flask, and to then find yourself following hounds through the fields of Elysium before your mortal carcass hits the turf.